Page 12 of Gambit
The word leaves my lips, a whisper that carries like a bullet across the stillness. They move, swift shadows, their steps silent, their purpose as sharp as the knives tucked into their boots. I stay put; my world shrunk to the circle framed by the scope.
“Move,” I murmur, as I don’t have a clear shot. It’s too unpredictable.
Eliza twists, her body a weapon. Franks grapples with her, his hands all over her.
My finger hovers over the trigger, itching to end this. My breath comes slow and measured, while inside me, everything screams for release.
I wait, eye glued to the scope, every other sense faded to nothingness. It’s just me, the rifle, and the target. The cottage walls confine them, but not for long. Soon, it’ll be over. All it takes is one clear shot, and I’ll take it without hesitation—for her, always for her.
Eliza drives her knee up between Franks’ legs. The impact is silent to me, but its effect is clear as day. Franks’ face contorts in agony, his body folding as he gasps for air, curling away from her like he’s been burned. That’s my girl—fierce and fearless even when the odds are stacked against her.
This is it. The moment everything shrinks down to nothing but the crosshairs and Franks. There’s no room for doubt, no space for second thoughts. It’s just me, the trigger, and the bullet that’s about to sing.
I exhale. Time slows. My finger tightens on the trigger, steady as steel. And then...
8
RAPHAEL
We burstthrough the cottage door, and it’s like stepping into a snapshot of chaos frozen in time. Just ahead, Franks jerks on the floor as a bullet from James’ rifle punches into his shoulder. The impact makes him shriek.
“Nice shot,” I murmur under my breath, the corner of my mouth twitching up.
There’s no satisfaction like seeing a plan come together, especially when it’s designed for payback. Even better when there’s room left for me to add my personal touch. James knows his role—leave enough life in Franks for me to have my turn, and here we stand, with Franks wounded but breathing, ripe for retribution.
Fear flickers across his face. It’s the look of a man who knows he’s about to reap what he’s sown, and it fuels the fire in my veins. This is the moment I’ve been waiting for, and nothing will stop me from enjoying every last second of it.
Oliver crosses to Eliza’s side in a heartbeat, blade flashing as it slices clean through the zip ties that bind her. They fall away, and she flexes her wrists, relief sweeping over her face. I don’tmiss the way her eyes thank him silently, even as she winces from the rough treatment she’s endured.
“Easy,” Oliver whispers. His hands are gentle as he pulls the sides of her ripped dress together, hiding marks left by those who dared touch what’s ours. He rubs her wrists, soothing the redness there, murmuring words to her that don’t reach my ears.
I drag Franks up by his collar, hauling him to his feet. He’s a dead man standing and reeks of fear, his legs wobbly beneath him.
Tarquin’s face is a mask of fury, the veins in his neck bulging as he steps past me. He moves with lethal intent, his gaze locked on Franks like a hawk zeroing in on its prey. I can almost feel the heat radiating off him, an inferno stoked by the need to make someone pay for what they dared to do to Eliza.
“Fucking cunt,” Tarquin spits out, the words slicing through the heavy air.
Franks’ eyes widen, a second too late to brace himself before Tarquin’s fist crashes into his face. There’s a satisfying crunch as his nose breaks, blood spurting out like a fountain. He staggers, then topples like a tree axed at the base, hitting the floor hard enough to bounce.
“Piece of shit,” Tarquin growls, standing over him.
I look down at Franks, a pathetic mess trying to crawl away, and I see red.
“Where do you think you’re going?” My voice comes out low and menacing. I grab him by the back of his collar, choking him with his own damn shirt, and yank his head back. The fear in his eyes is satisfying, but it’s not enough, not nearly.
With a punch to his jaw, his head snaps back. I hear the crack, and somewhere inside, I feel a dark thrill.
Tarquin’s boot lands a solid kick to Franks’ ribs, making him grunt.
We don’t let up, our anger feeding off each other, a relentless storm of fists and boots. Each hit I land strips away the helplessness I felt when we discovered Eliza was missing and replaces it with unrestrained power. I punch, kick, and throw every bit of my strength into making Franks pay.
We’re beyond reason now, two forces of nature unleashed.
Franks’ face is a mess of blood and bruises, his breaths ragged gasps that barely rise over the sound of his own cries. He slumps, defenceless, against the floor as my boot presses down on his throat.
“Raphael,” Eliza’s voice slices through the chaos, sharp as the blade she wields. I step back, my chest heaving, and watch her move with lethal grace.
She picks up Flick—that knife she carries like an extension of her will—the edge catching the light. Her green eyes blaze with a fury I know all too well; it’s the same fire that burns in my gut, the same drive that’s got my hands itching to deal out more pain.
